


Fifth Metacarpal

by gala_apples



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Never Met, Craigslist, First Meetings, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 20:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18269102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: Stiles hasneeds, okay? Needs best fulfilled by strangers on the internet.





	Fifth Metacarpal

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the anonymity prompt for seasonsofkink.

It starts like Stiles is setting up a sting. He writes a Craigslist post, worded carefully to get past a screen but still imply the right things. He gets a few joke responses, and a few creepy ones, but there’s one that stands out. The guy should be Stiles’ mark. He should be lured in, and Stiles goes in the room bugged and when the incriminating event goes down, Stiles uses the codeword to make everyone run in. But really, he’s the guy that Stiles has hired legitimately, because Stiles’ life is a fucking joke.

He has _needs_ , okay? Basic needs. Blame his ADHD, or being a stereotypical privileged white American male, or the sexualised nature of this generation, but Stiles needs to get off at least once a day, or he can’t concentrate. A daily routine made more difficult by his cock being picky. Vibration doesn’t do it for him, and most toys are a total turn off. But whatever, every person with a sex drive eventually becomes accustomed to the specific things they use to get off. 

The problem comes when Stiles breaks his hand. His fifth metacarpal, to be specific. He’s an idiot, he didn’t properly save a project for one of his classes. Turns out punching his desk not only wasn’t a solution, it’s delightfully going to add six thousand to his student debt. He’s going to be wrapped up in plaster for five to six weeks, according to the doc. It takes him about twelve hours of those five weeks to figure out that his cock is also not interested in a left hand jerk off. It’s just different enough that it’s unacceptable. 

Four days in, and he’s gone insane. He can’t focus enough to write notes in any of his classes. As a last ditch effort to save his ass, Stiles has started to record the lectures with Audacity, but fuck only knows when he’ll be able to concentrate enough to listen to them and absorb information. He can’t sleep. It feels like he’s a paper bag holding a hundred bees. Not for the stereotype of his skin buzzing, but because there’s pollen to collect and royal jelly to distribute, and all he has to do is go in a hundred different directions all at the same time and everything will be okay, but he’s fucking trapped in this paper bag of his own making.

So yeah, he writes a post asking who wants a temporary job jerking off a cute young twink once a day, time negotiable, in a location provided by the twink, for satisfactory payment and other favours offered. Because it’s that or watch his life crumble just in time for a string of heavily weighted tests and group projects. Stiles has a future at Quantico at risk, he’s not going to flunk a bunch of classes.

The guy who Stiles gave first dibs to actually shows up. It’s more than Stiles was really expecting, though he’s grateful, like any poison ivy sufferer would be on their knees for a calamine lotion deliverer. Not that Stiles played hide and seek dismally at summer camp when he was twelve or anything. He’s on Stiles’ doorstep, and he looks how he did in the pic he sent. That’s a relief. Now Stiles doesn’t have to debate the ethics and self-worth issues of still fucking a guy who lied in a sex profile.

“Hey,” the guy smiles sheepishly. He reaches up to drag his hand through his hair, and Stiles can’t help but notice the tribal tattoos encircling his bicep. Normally Stiles hates douchey bros, but the thick black looks good against the rich topaz of his skin. “I’m Scott. You still looking for a...”

Scott finishes his sentence by making a hand motion, and Stiles is immediately transported back into his own skin. He’d been out of it, for a brief moment. Free from the all over craving itch. But one millisecond of awareness of other people’s masturbation and he’s back to tormented.

“Yeah, I am. Come in. Like now.”

Stiles steps back and lets this stranger in his home. Hypothetically speaking, if Scott attempts to murder him now, Stiles can save himself. Dad was never the type of cop to push hypermasculinity onto his kid, but he did insist on gender neutral self defence skills. Stiles got martial arts _and_ purse-sized bear spray. Less hypothetically, there’s a thrill in allowing a stranger to come into his space. He wonders briefly what Scott thinks about his mild attempts at interior decoration. It’s harder than he declared in the high school cafeteria to never be the boring dude decorating with a Fight Club or Starry Night poster.

Surprise surprise, Scott doesn’t pull out a machete from his pocket. What he actually does is similarly startling, but not even a fraction as menacing. Scott just unbuckles his belt, and kicks off his shoes before starting to wiggle out of his jeans. And underwear next, lets not forget the beautiful length of cock that Stiles has mere feet away from him. Stiles posted about a handjob, potentially mutual if the hired help wants it, but seeing this guy half naked Stiles can’t help but want to do everything listed in the Kama Sutra.

“You didn’t want to talk first? About if there should be reciprocity? Or maybe-”

Scott disarms his babble with a smile. “If there’s something to talk about, we can just as easily do it with our pants off. Stiles, I want to see your cock.”

Well, it’s hard to argue with that.

Once they’re both naked, Scott relocates to the couch. Stiles sits beside him, figuring if Scott does want reciprocity, both of them crossing their arms over is one of the best ways. Scott must have his own viewpoint. He twists until his back is against the armrest, and swings a leg up and behind Stiles. Scott’s chest is against Stiles’ back, and he smells good. Chocolatey. Stiles’ ADHD has him wondering what brand of soap Scott uses, or if it’s some indie Etsy shit, but there’s no chance he’ll ever find out. It’s not a during-sex kind of conversation, and it’s too early in the afternoon for a few random mumbles before falling asleep with someone. When Stiles said time of day was negotiable, he didn’t think someone would offer just before local news, but any time was worth actually finally getting off.

Leaning back against Scott, Stiles finds himself literally happy sighing when his cock is touched. Scott takes him in a good grip. Moderate, Stiles could say. If someone wanted a tight, punishing grip, Scott could ramp up a level. If someone else wanted loose and fast, slick as a waterslide, Scott could move the other way. 

“You still happy?”

Whispers in his ears have never been so genuinely, congenially concerned before. Scott’s as nice as a granny, and who does a BDSM style check in mid-sex when it’s just a fucking handjob? That’s like a doctor asking a patient with a sliver their pain threshold. Just strange. 

“Fuckin’ jerk me off, I haven’t come in days!” Stiles groans.

You never know how a new person will react to orders until you see it for the first time. Sometimes Stiles thinks the world can be divided into subs and doms. People who can take orders, and people who can only give them. Other times he thinks he watches too much porn. But right now Stiles is thinking it doesn’t matter what Scott’s nature is, because Scott starts moving his hand, and Stiles just about implodes.

It’s been impossible navigating his mental space the last few days. Days like Tuesday have really made Stiles question his general mental health. It’s not normal to be unable to decide what to wear to class to the point of panic attack. He’s wiki-spiraled about executive dysfunction, along with a hundred thousand other article starting points, but he’s pretty sure it’s offensive to imply that a handjob will cure a mental disorder. So no, there’s probably nothing actually wrong with him, besides being a total fuckup, but it’s still a relief akin to a valium to be jerked off.

Stiles comes without quieting his yowls, because who cares? If it doesn’t make a good first impression, well, he can always hire someone else. He doesn’t want to. Scott seems cute, and nice. But at this point routine is more important than being palatable for a stranger. Luckily, Scott doesn’t seem to mind. He feels hard against Stiles’ lower back, at least. 

“You want my hand or...?” Stiles doubts Scott will have a problem with his left hand. Scott’s not the weird one, after all.

“I’m going to stay right here.” Scott curls an arm around his waist and ruts a few times against Stiles’ lower back and ass, as if to show him exactly what ‘here’ means. Then there’s a small shift, and Scott is still spooning him, but now he’s got a hand around his own dick. He’s using the hand still wet with Stiles’ jizz to jerk himself off, and by gods if that isn’t the hottest fucking thing Stiles has thought of this month. What search word string will get him a visual of that, Stiles doesn’t know, but he’s sure he’ll find it and bookmark it.

“You free tomorrow at six thirty am?” Scott asks once he uses a kleenex to wipe his hand, and is in the process of redressing.

“Uh,” Stiles says. Six thirty is not a decent hour to be up. 

“It’s that or at eight, but I’ll be practicing for track tomorrow. I’ll be all sweaty.”

In Stiles’ head Scott is sexy when he’s sweat laden, shirt sticking to his abs. But he can’t know that for sure. Some people have rather sweet smelling sweat, like they’ve sprayed on enough perfume that it gets lodged in their pores. Some people straight up reek like three unwashed days at a Yu-Gi-Oh tournament. If Scott is too much to be near, it’ll ruin the handie. 

“Six thirty is fine.” He’d rather have a repeat hire then find someone else. He did say temp job in the posting, after all. Might as well be an honest advertiser. If that means rearranging his days the next few weeks to fit Scott’s schedule, well, so be it.

“Cool. See you tomorrow then!” Scott grins at him, and ducks in for a quick cheek kiss before heading to the door. 

Stiles lets him go without following him. It’s not like Scott can fuck up closing a door. Stiles has more important things to do now. He’s got a list, actually, of all the important tasks he has to complete while competent. And of course, the new priority of finding porn most similar to the real life sex he just had. Can’t forget about that.


End file.
